A Flaw in the Math
by Tathrin
Summary: Alex likes things that add-up and follow patterns and can be solved neatly with sword or abacas. Roger likes dancing between the lines and tugging strings and playing complicated games of cats-cradle with immeasurable magical powers. Alex doesn't like it when he can't trust his own mind and the math doesn't come out even. Roger helps him fill in the blanks—or maybe he creates more


**A Flaw in the Math**

Alexander of Tirragen had a mind as sharp as the blades he wielded so well—everyone said so, had been saying it for years. Numbers were his particular specialty but he did well in most of his academics, not just in mathematics—but it was in mathematics that he _shone_. Perhaps if there had been more dutiful glory to be found in Tortall for those who manipulated sums and equations Alex might have forgone a knighthood to concentrate on mathematical theory instead, for he dearly loved the dance of numbers…but he loved the dance of swordplay too, and Tirragen had a fine history of knightly service to the Crown that its heir was duty-boundto continue. Alex was sure to be a fine knight; that was something else that everyone said. He was the best fencer of all his year mates, one of the best fencers that their training master had ever seen. But being _one of_ the best had never been good enough for Alex.

Maybe that was why his sharp mind had blurred on the practice courts that afternoon, his wits and self-control overcome by his ambitions and jealousy and his desire to prove himself the best _once and for all_. He couldn't think why else he would have gone so far, would have stepped so much outside the lines of dueling propriety and common decency and actually hurt his friend—albeit a friend who had been drawing away from him for years, but Alex had always put that distance down to duty mostly: he'd had a knight master to serve, and Alan had had training of his own—he and all the rest of their friends, they had all had their duties, and Duke Roger had been a demanding tutor who had kept Alex busy, training him to be the best…he hadn't resented his friends (much) for the fact that sometimes he felt lonely (a little) because he remembered what his father had told him: when you choose to stand in a place that only has room for one, you have forfeited the right to bemoan your aloneness. And while _best of_ was something that a group could claim, only one could be _the_ best.

But to _kill_ for that position? Because Alex knew—even though the knowledge sickened him so much that he tried to reject it—knew that that was nearly what he had done. And the most frightening part to him was that he genuinely did not know how close that _nearly_ had come to being _actually_. His always-so-clear, crystal-sharp brain couldn't provide an answer this time. How close had he been to killing Alan? Had he been caught-up in the fight and forgotten himself—forgotten that he was dueling a friend, not fighting a Hillman or chasing a bandit? Or had he done it on purpose, as Sir Myles seemed to think; done it so that he would be better than Alan, be the best, forever?

Alex shuddered. Coming close to killing his friend—that was bad enough. But _not knowing_ was eating him up like a poison. Why couldn't he remember? Why couldn't he think? Why was everything so _unclear?_ Alex didn't like things that weren't clear. It was one of the reasons why he liked numbers so much: things were either right or wrong; not stagnant no but nonetheless solid, reliable, constant. Things could be postulated, balanced, solved. And in the end you knew exactly what you had and the only doubts were whether or not all of your math added-up—doubts that could be double-checked against and then banished, never to bother you again.

Life was a lot messier than math, but swordplay had always come close— _before_. Each blow was like a number that you balanced against your opponent's equation and in the end, one set of numbers won and one lost. It was calm, precise, beautiful. _Reliable_. Or at least it had been, until now.

Until he'd almost killed Alan and then couldn't follow-back along the steps of the equation to get to the answer of how or why. It didn't add-up, that was the problem; when you factored in all the elements of the situation, the answer didn't balance. Alex didn't know what to do about that.

He leaned forward over the privy and heaved, the bile that came up not tasting half as bitter as the pain and confusion over what he had done, and how, and why. He drank a full pitcher of water and cleaned his teeth and even chewed a handful of mint from the little collection of herbs that Roger had taught him to keep for medicinal aids but none of it helped wash the bitterness from his mouth, because it wasn't the vomit that lingered. It was the sense of loss he felt over being betrayed by his own brain. That wasn't something that could be cured with a handful of mint and a headache powder. That wasn't something that even a visit to Duke Baird could solve, Alex knew; that was a problem with _him_ and he didn't know how to find what the problem was, let alone how to solve it. It _didn't balance_.

That was doubtless why he ended up outside Duke Roger's rooms after leaving his own to wander the palace and try to walk-off his confusion. It was always Roger he turned to when things didn't make sense, when he couldn't work-out the equation that would put the world back in balance. It had been little things at first, the ordinary questions that a squire asks his knight master. Then there had been the Black City, when Jon and Alan had rode off into adventure and danger without bringing any of the rest of them along. When the prince had left the best fencer out of all his friends behind in order to brave death with only a page at his side. When Jon and Alan had returned with a story of slaying demons and purging ancient evils, and the other squires had only been able to gawp.

It wasn't jealousy, Alex had told himself over and over at the time; at least it wasn't _only_ jealousy. There was something about the story they told that didn't add up, and that had bothered him far more than the niggling pang of envy—of resentment—he felt at being left-out once again. He had voiced his confusion to Duke Roger, hoping that the great sorcerer would be able to explain what Alex wasn't able to wrap his head around, but Roger's explanations hadn't quite balanced the problem either—but they had helped. So had the distraction that Roger offered after explanations failed to soothe his agitated squire. Alex had nearly— _nearly_ —been able to let the problem go unsolved without bitterness in the face of the other equation that _had_ been balanced that night.

That one had been wearing at Alex ever since the death of Francis of Nond during the Sweating Sickness. He had been too ill from the disease himself even to attend Francis's funeral, and it was that more than anything—but not _only_ that—which had kept that wound, that question, from ever properly closing. Alex had learned to live with it, with the lack of closure and the lack of answer, but he hadn't ever felt truly comfortable in his own skin since losing Francis. It wasn't just that he couldn't really believe that Francis was dead without seeing the body; it was because he had died before the two of them had worked-out the solution to their personal equation. Lovely, shy Francis, with his skin like smooth cream and his hair like silken flax and his lips like pure velvet…

They had only kissed a few times, and barely done anything more than that—nervous and scared and confused and hungry for so, so much more than their limited time and their fears of making proper use of that time had afforded them. Alex wasn't sure if he had been in love with Francis—knew he had loved him as a friend of course, but had they really been _in love_ or just in love with the idea of each other? That was a part of the question that he knew he would _never_ have an answer for now, because he had lost Francis before he had even begun to sort that equation out.

But at least Roger had helped him answer part of it.

Alex had grown more and more agitated the longer they talked, Roger sitting there watching him with patient amusement; he wasn't used to his cold and collected squire not being in control of himself, and he had made no attempt to hide the fact that he found Alex's frustration entertaining. As a mage, Roger had had to come to terms with the fact that there were some questions he would probably never have a stable, reliable, constant answer to—and he was all right with that; that was, to him, part of the point of mage-craft: the fact that magic was fluid, wild-yet-tamable, passionate and powerful, and even when it was under his control still a little bit unpredictable was part of the reason why he took joy in his Gift.

Alex was glad then that he didn't have the Gift; he would not have been happy living like that.

"What is it that really bothers you?" Roger had asked him at one point. "The fact that Jon and Alan survived without you, or the fact that their survival doesn't make sense to you?"

"I'm not bothered that they survived," Alex had protested.

"No?" Roger had arched an eyebrow, had given Alex that sly and knowing smile that he showed to so few at Court, the smile that said he knew more than you wanted him to and he didn't care if you knew it. The first time he had smiled like that at Alex his mouth had gone dry and he'd almost choked on nothing but air—well, air and his own tears, because he had been crying at the time; it had been the anniversary of Francis's death and the grief had hit him quite suddenly like a black tidal wave.

He had buried his face in his pillow, sure that his hitching and breathless sobs were too quiet for his knight master to hear from the adjoining room, but when he'd looked up to search for a handkerchief Roger had been standing in the doorway, watching him in silence. He had had to explain what had a grown squire weeping like a child, although he had not of course shared the precise details of his grief over Francis—or at least he had not _meant_ to, but Roger had chipped in at the question from the edges, sidling up to the truth so mildly that Alex hadn't realized that he was giving away more than he ought until Roger said, "The first love is always the hardest one to lose."

Alex had stammered denials and deflections, stuttering, anxious, trying to explain that Roger had it _all wrong_ —but Roger had just raised an eyebrow and given him that sly little smile and Alex had stopped breathing. Then Roger had taken his chin in his hand—a hand that had the calluses from swordplay that Alex was familiar with, but that smelled of the strange spices and incenses of the magecraft that Alex could never know—and he had drawn Alex's face up to his and kissed him gently. "Broken hearts mend in time," Roger had murmured, his lips still so close that they brushed Alex's skin as they moved, "and you will learn to shield yourself from hurts like this someday, my lovely squire." Then he had smoothed Alex's damp curls off his forehead and walked back to his own bed, leaving Alex alone to relearn how to breathe.

The next morning Roger had made no mention of their late-night conversation; had acted like neither it nor the kiss had ever happened while Alex walked on nervous egg-shells and fretted himself into a daze. It was two full weeks before he touched Alex again outside the training courts; just caught his wrist as Alex was setting out the evening tea that Roger liked to drink while he read and kissed the heel of his palm before letting go and saying blandly, "I think perhaps you'd better ask the maids to send up a second plate of biscuits to go with this. The Gate of Idramm is a tricky spell and I'll probably be up later than usual working on this translation. I shouldn't need you again tonight though, so you're free to retire or do as you like once you've taken care of that."

Alex's mind had whirled then (whirled, but not clouded; his thoughts had never _clouded_ before, not like this) and he had murmured something that sounded vaguely like agreement and fled to find a servant.

There had been more little touches after that, sometimes comforting and sometimes enticing, but always casual and always brief. Alex hadn't known what to make of gestures like that; it wasn't seduction, not any sort of seduction that he had ever heard about anyway, because Roger didn't do anything to press the gestures further or even dangle an invitation for Alex to return them. It had been yet another equation he couldn't balance, and eventually the frustration of that confusion had gotten to him and he hadn't been able to play the obedient and silent, unquestioning squire any longer. He had had to speak—had to _ask._

When pressed on the issue at last, Roger had said only, "I know what it's like to grow-up feeling like your feelings are wrong. It isn't pleasant and it doesn't lead to good paths. I've trodden several and there aren't many of them I can recommend. Well, I may not be able to change the world—not yet, anyway," he'd added and he'd chuckled quietly to himself before finishing simply with: "but at least I can do my part to avoid instilling in you the idea that there's something _wrong_ with you."

Alex hadn't had a good answer for a statement like that, so he'd simply nodded and withdrawn. That had been the last they'd spoken of it—feelings or gestures or kisses or _wrongness_ —until after Jon and Alan returned from the Black City and Alex's frustrations with his friends had boiled-over.

And then Roger had given him that sly, knowing smile, and Alex had felt his face flush with hot embarrassment and discomfort. Ordinarily his blushes were not very noticeable, his complexion being darker than most of his friends, but he was sure that this one was strong enough that Roger could tell he had struck a nerve. "I am not upset that they survived," Alex had repeated through gritted teeth, "I just don't like it when things don't add-up properly, and their story doesn't make sense. Do _you_ think it makes sense?"

"No," Roger had replied easily. He was toying with his jewelry idly, but while his tone was casual his words were not. "I think there are holes in it that you could drive a whole herd of these Bazhir's precious horses through. I think that stories that involve young Alan of Trebond often have little holes like that, and I would like to get to the bottom of that lad's secrets. And he _has_ secrets, for all that he himself is as bland and uninteresting as a field of wheat. But not tonight."

Alex had realized belatedly that Roger's blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him. It was like staring directly into two glittering sapphires. He didn't know how long he'd been meeting his knight master's eyes but his palms were damp and his pulse was racing; his breathing had turned quick and heavy, as though he was fencing. His lips had gone dry and he licked them without result.

"I think tonight," Roger had said with a smile that was very different from any of the smiles he had given Alex before, "we should deal with one of your secrets, my squire. Come. There are lessons I would like to teach you that do not require cold steel or chivalrous codes."

Alex had walked forward as though hypnotized but he couldn't remember ever feeling more alert. His own breath rasped loud in his ears, louder than an avalanche; every detail of the room and the furnishings seemed to fix themselves permanently in his awareness—and so did every stitch of clothing and glint of glitter that the Duke was wearing; his brown-black hair, silky and flowing as ink, now slightly tousled in a way that Roger never permitted himself to appear when he was in public; his eyes dark and deep enough that Alex felt like he was on the brink of falling into a bottomless pool and drowning there; hid rings and pendant necklaces blazing like fire against his dark robes and pale skin; and then there was his _smile_. Alex could barely breathe, looking at that smile.

The next thing he knew he had stretched out his hands and Roger had taken them in both of his, rising to his feet in a rustle of silks to plant a delicate kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Come," he said again, his voice a whisper this time, and he turned and pulled Alex behind him to his bed.

The moments that followed Alex could not, unfortunately, remember with perfect clarity. Several stood out in his memory like perfect, crystalline jewels: the Duke undressing him, gently and slowly, making Alex shiver as his fingers caressed his increasingly exposed flesh. Roger guiding Alex's hands through the task of removing his more elaborate clothes and jewels, laughing at him as he tried to pause to fold them neatly and then dashing the whole pile recklessly to the floor with a carelessness that he couldn't remember Roger ever showing toward his fine clothes before. Roger's mouth moving over his skin, traveling from lips to neck to shoulder and back again; traveling lower and making Alex gasp and tremble; nipping his ear hard enough to draw blood…

That was the only blood the Duke drew their first night together, although later trysts had sometimes involved nails and teeth and pleasure that mingled deliriously with pain. Their first night he was only gentle, drawing Alex out of his stiff reserve and into Roger's languid, caressing arms and legs and lips. Alex spent most of the night in alternating states of trembling anticipation and limp ecstasy, all of it new and overwhelming and beautiful. His earnest, heartfelt, shy embraces with Francis had been nothing like this; this was all raw passion and heat and _touch_. He couldn't remember every moment of that night, but Alex knew he would never forget the way the Duke's touch felt on his skin, or moving deep inside him. He had slept that night in Roger's arms and, for the first time since he was a child, had slept long past dawn. When he had woken, it was only the fact that he was still nestled up against Roger's naked body that had convinced him that it hadn't all been a dream. They'd made love again in the morning, the Duke mounting him swiftly, almost business-like in his briskness, and then rolled out of bed to summon the maids for a late breakfast before he returned to his work. Alex would have been content to stay in bed all day, learning new things about Roger's body and his own, but duty called them both away—for the moment.

There had been many, many more nights like that afterward, and Alex had learned many things in his time as the Duke's squire—but not every night; Roger was fickle, and his moods fluctuated according to the efficiency of his research and his plans. Sometimes he worked his frustrations out with Alex, the two of them tangled together roughly, panting and gasping, practically growling; sometimes Roger gripped him so tightly he left bruises and sometimes long, bloody scratches-marks that Alex was careful to conceal not because he was ashamed to sport such badges of his knight master's affections, but because he knew how the rest of the world would react—how his _friends_ would react if they knew his secret, knew Roger's.

Sometimes when something was going well Roger would be almost unbearably smug, teasing Alex to the point of torment, moving so slowly that the proud heir of Tirragen was reduced to begging. That he might have been shamed by, except that Roger never lorded such triumphs over him—and the rewards for his pathetic, desperate, whining pleas were always generous. Alex learned to love begging, at least when he was in the Duke's bed. Or on the Duke's floor. Or up against the Duke's walls. Or bent over the Duke's tables with books and notes falling unheeded to the floor. Wherever and however Roger wanted to take his pleasure, Alex was always happy to oblige. He would have obliged him more if he'd asked, but Roger never risked Alex's honor—and his own—by daring anything more than a discreet touch outside his rooms. Those touches were sometimes enough to drive Alex mad, though; knowing that he would have to wait until after dark, when the Duke was done with his research or plotting for the day, before he could get satisfaction for those distractions— _if_ Roger wasn't distracted by something that kept him from his bed, and _if_ Roger wasn't just doing it to tease Alex and watch his reserved, collected squire squirm.

Nothing much changed when Alex achieved his knighthood, although he spent fewer nights in Roger's bed; they no longer shared quarters, and Alex had to be discreet about traveling back and forth between their rooms, especially under the eye of his own new squire. It had been Roger who had encouraged Alex to select Geoffrey of Meron—for Alex had not intended to take _any_ squire, not his first year as a knight, although as their heir to Tirragen he could afford it at least, but Roger had suggested that it would be a good idea to forge a bond with Meron and Alex had obeyed the implied order…as he obeyed most all of Roger's orders, implied or otherwise. Alex liked Geoffrey, and surprisingly he even enjoyed teaching him—a task that he had not been sure would be to his liking, since he had never spent much effort in tutoring younger pages when he had been one himself, but Geoffrey was a fine hand with a sword and had a keen interest in mathematics. On slow nights, the two of them often stayed up until all hours lost in theoretical discussions of mathematical minutia and possibilities.

Roger seemed to find that amusing. Alex refused to ask why.

He refused to ask about Lady Delia of Eldorne, either. He knew that she was a friend of the Duke's of some sort, although he never asked how they met—or how well they knew each other. She had seemed to only have eyes for Jon at any rate, and Alex had no personal stake in his prince's love life. He _did_ notice that Alan seemed unduly interested in what his knight master was doing with the lady, which afforded Alex much quiet amusement—amusement that he did not share with Roger. He served the Duke, and often happily, but he was not above toying with Roger a little too and he had so few weaknesses for Alex to take advantage of; Alan was one, and one that Alex would make use of happily.

Besides, if he was right about why Alan was so interested in Delia—and yet so obviously not interested _in_ Delia—then if Roger could not also spot what was going on, he had only himself to blame. He had figured out Alex's secret easily enough, after all.

But it wasn't Delia who had brought him and Alan to blows, as she had many of their fellow knights. Alex wasn't quite certain _what_ had caused their duel to go so terribly wrong; that was the worst part, that he couldn't _remember_. Couldn't _think_.

That was why he was outside Roger's door now, pounding on it with no thought to discretion or concealment or propriety. He needed answers, he needed someone who could make this make _sense_. And he didn't have anyone to turn to but Roger.

"Please," was all he said, when the Duke yanked the door open. Something about his expression—or the helplessness of his plea—must have communicated the severity of the situation to Roger, because he didn't waste time in questions or quips but waved Alex inside and locked the door behind him.

Inside Alex paced, not sure how to begin, and Roger watched him. From the look of the table he was sitting at Roger had been in the middle of some complicated bit of magical research but Alex didn't care what he was interrupting; for once, neither did Roger, because he made no mention of the inconvenience of Alex's arrival. He simply waited, uncharacteristically quiet, until Alex finally worked himself up enough to speak:

"There's something wrong with me," he said.

"I thought we settled that years ago," the Duke replied mildly. "There is nothing wrong with you, Alex. Just because you live in a world of small-minded and primitively ignorant, judgmental—"

"No," Alex interrupted, something he almost never did; not to Roger, at any rate. "No, it isn't that. It's—it's Alan."

Roger went still but Alex barely noticed. "What about young Trebond?" he asked.

"We were—we were dueling. Not really dueling, not fighting, just—just sparring. You know. As friends."

"Still trying to find out which of you is better?" Roger's voice didn't hold the same amused scorn it usually did when talking about Alex's ongoing competition with Alan of Trebond; he had already made it plain to Alex that he considered the reports of Alan's skills exaggerated, and was sure that his own squire could out-duel the boy if he ever _really_ put his mind to it.

 _That_ at least had been proven, it seemed, and Alex gave a bitter laugh at the thought. "No," he said. "I mean, yes. But it—it went all… _wrong_." He ground his teeth, trying to find a way to describe the feeling of _disconnect_ , of _blurriness_ he had experienced but every phrase he tried-out in his head just sounded like he was making _excuses_ for losing control and hurting someone else. He couldn't say _that_ to Roger!

"Yes?" said Roger. His eyes glittered with keen interest. "How so?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair like an expectant teacher who was sure his prized pupil was about to give the right answer to a difficult question.

"It…it just…got out of hand," Alex explained weakly. "I'm not sure exactly why. I can't—can't quite _remember_. But I…I hurt him." His voice had fallen to a hoarse whisper. He was worrying at one thumb with the other, a fidget that he had abandoned in childhood and never repeated once since—until now.

"You hurt him," Roger repeated—quiet, breathless. "How so? Is he…going to be all right?"

Alex nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He had to clear it three times before he could: "Sir Myles came. He saw—he stopped—he found us. He took Alan to the healers."

"Ahh." Roger settled back in his chair, his face a blank mask but Alex knew his former knight master well enough that he could see through it to the emotion behind: _disappointment_.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Sorry?" Roger looked up, startled out of his some reverie of his own—possibly wondering why he had chosen such a disappointing knight to be his squire. People had speculated about that for years, since Alex was un-Gifted and Duke Roger of Conté was the greatest living sorcerer in all the Eastern Lands. All Alex had done now was finally prove that Roger had been wrong to make such a controversial choice; he _wasn't_ worthy of the faith that Roger had placed in him, and that hurt almost as much as the knowledge that there was some kind of fault in his brain.

"Alex, you don't have anything to apologize to _me_ for."

Alex started out of his dark thoughts and stared at Duke Roger. "Sir?" he said. "Didn't you—didn't you hear me? I said I—"

"Said you'd been fencing a squire whom you have told me many, many times is quite nearly as good at swordplay as you are, and he got hurt." Roger stood and shrugged. "These things happen, Alex; training accidents are nothing new, and Alan of Trebond has always shown a reckless streak. I'm not surprised that he over-extended himself in an attempt to best you; I'm only surprised that a sensible young man like yourself is taking something like this so hard to heart. You say he'll recover fully?"

Alex jerked his head in a stiff nod.

Roger spread his hands wide in an expansive gesture. "Well then there's no lasting harm done, so there's no need for this unproductive and misplaced guilt. Especially when I strongly suspect that he shares equally in whatever blame there is for the incident, if there's any worth bothering with at all—which I maintain is doubtful." He smiled at Alex and fiddled idly with his jewelry. "Now, is that really all that's bothering you?"

"…Sir?" Alex asked, feeling wrong-footed and not sure exactly why.

"Are you sure you aren't perhaps having…other concerns?" Roger raised an eyebrow. "Your focus on young Alan of Trebond…I wonder if it's not perhaps because you see something of yourself in him. Something more than you expected, perhaps?"

Alex blinked. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said slowly. "Alan is a fine fencer, but we don't really have all that much in common outside of that, and our friends. He's got a hot temper, and everyone says I have ice water in place of blood; he fights bullies to compensate for his insecurity over his height, and I haven't had any trouble of that sort since I bloodied Jasson of Stone Mountain's nose over his cracks about my ancestry my second year as a page." Roger's eyebrow arched higher but Alex ignored it; sidelong looks and whispers behind his back weren't worth paying attention to and they certainly weren't worth commenting on. "Alan is outgoing and chatty and I'm…" He smiled thinly. "Not."

Roger chuckled, acknowledging at least that last point with an agreeable nod, but then he caught Alex's eyes again and said in a low voice, "And what about his fixation on Prince Jonathan?"

It was Alex's turn to raise his eyebrows. "That's definitely not something I share," he said dryly.

"No," Roger admitted, walking toward Alex, "but are you telling me there really aren't any commonalities you can see? A boy who's infatuated with a handsome, older knight master of the Conté line with a strong magical gift…stunning blue eyes…charming manners…" Roger grinned and Alex had to smile back at him, although he could feel a blush heating his cheeks at the same time.

"I suppose now that you mention it…" he murmured.

Roger chuckled; his breath stirred the hair by Alex's ear and he felt his knees turning watery. Part of him was still railing about Alan, about hurting him, about losing control, about losing track of his own thoughts—but that part was far away and distant, and Roger was here in front of him now. Alex opened his mouth for a kiss and fell forward into Roger's arms. He wasn't foolish enough to think that even the Duke of Conté could twiddle his thumbs and magically make everything all right, but he was more than willing to let the sorcerer beguile him into _thinking_ it was for a time with his hands and his lips and his kisses.

The problem would still be there, blazing to be solved, when he woke later—but for now, he could lose himself in Roger and forget how out-of-balance the world had become.


End file.
